Weeping Angel
by EsmereldaGaladriel
Summary: A romance between John and Molly, who are perfect for each other. Both lonely and broken after the death of their only friend


I own nothing

Molly opened the door to her flat and flopped down in the chair next to the fire. It had been a long day at work, and keeping tabs on people was harder than it looks. Her cat, Toby, jumped up on her lap and started to purr. As she stroked the soft fur, Molly thought. Life for Molly had been irrevocably changed by the time a month had passed since Sherlock's "death". She had been completely alone before Sherlock came into her life, and now her only friend had to go. Everything stayed the same. Nobody thought her important to talk to, not since the fall. Lestrade came sometimes, for autopsies, but never really talked to her as a human being. While Sherlock had been free, she had thought herself hopelessly in love with him. It was painful, seeing the one person who registered your existance treat you with something approaching on contempt, when you had a crush on them. It was only the last years that he had been more civil. John had seemed nice, but didn't really talk much. Around her he always seemed shy, for some reason. Without even makeshift friends the days were one and the same now, nothing really was important except what Sherlock had asked her to do. He asked for his help, on the day he thought he might die. He asked her to identify him as dead, and to take care of his friends. As the only one who knew that Sherlock was alive, it was so hard to see Lestrade, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson go about, with none of their usual spirit. Sherlock had told her to watch out for them when he was gone. She had realized, as he asked her for help, that what she had loved of him was only a shadow, something that was not Sherlock. So, she kept watch over his friends, and tried not to tell them what she so desperately wanted to. She found herself following John more often than the other two. She had never really noticed him before, he had always been Sherlock's shadow, the friend following to keep the other out of trouble. While Mrs. Hudson cried and Lestrade avoided the subject, John just completely shut off, as if years of his life had been clipped from his memory. He is so lonely, she realized. One of his friends is far away, and all the rest are dead, in the army or after the fall. His parents are dead, and his sister drinks and is estranged. He has nobody, even Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are drifting away. He is alone. She was quickly jolted back to the present as she raised her hand to her cheek, feeling moisture there. A single tear.

"Alone," she said aloud."Always alone."

Gosh, this is too depressing, she thought. I need a drink. Displacing Toby with a startled meow, she grabbed a coat off a hook and headed down to the neighbourhood pub of Baker Street.

She sat down, waiting for the barman to get her ale. Someone sat down beside her. She didn't see who, she was watching the television in the corner. Some stupid American ball game. A noise attracted her attention. She looked beside her, an envelope lay on the counter, addressed to her. She tried to see who might have left it. Probably just some drunk wanting a date. She opened it anyways.

Dear Molly, it said, I'm sorry I had to ask you this way, but I just couldn't talk to you. I want to talk with you. You can choose not to come. I'm sorry. 221B Baker Street.

Alone, with no-one to talk to. It must drive a person mad. But then again, thought Molly. I'm like that. When was the last time I really enjoyed life, just had a day where I felt happy? I haven't been happy since Sherlock went. I've just been a shell, an automaton. I think I need someone as much as he does. I need to talk with him.

The doorbell rang, and John opened the door. He had hoped against all hope that Molly might come. He needed to tell her so many things, it would be painful, confessing to love unrequited, but he needed to do it. He felt a strange sort of content, seeing her at the door. He welcomed her in.

"Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat."

She sat down in one of two large armchairs. There was something about him that seemed slightly uneasy. He made her a cup of tea and sat down in the other chair.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly."But I just need to tell someone, or I'll go mad. No-one knows my life, but I just have to tell someone."

"It's fine. I wasn't planning on much tonight," she smiled weakly. Lonely, and with a life even I wouldn't envy, she thought.

"I had two good friends once," he began, a faraway look in his eyes."Tim and Emily. They were my only friends for a long time, he was my best mate. I was in love with Emily, she was so kind, and to hear her sing! She should have been a proper singer, she would have been great at that. We travelled for a while, when we were younger. We met some interesting people, hitchhiking across the continent. When we came back, Tim and Emily had decided that they wanted to be journalists. We split then, them and I going off to different schools, and different lives. We kept in touch though, went out for a coffee sometimes. Tim and Emily fell in love, and got engaged. It broke my heart to hear that, but I never let it show. I was best man at their wedding, a happy day for them, but love lost for me. Soon after they were married, they got offered a job reporting on the Taliban in Afghanistan. They knew the risks, but they were adventurous and decided to take it. After a few months there, their letters stopped arriving. They had been killed by Taliban soldiers. That was the worst day of my life. We had always been there, the happy couple and the friend, hopelessly in love but never breaking. It was unbelievable that they were gone. I didn't sleep for days. I wanted revenge, I signed up as an army medic when the war on the Taliban began. I worked and worked and worked, every dying soldier reminded my of my friends, and every slaughtered woman reminded me of Emily, my nightingale, cruelly shot down from the sky. I hated the military, but I hated the Taliban more, they killed my only friends in the world. Then I was shot. I nearly died. I spent days in a coma. I had a long, slow recovery. I became friends with Bill, my nurse. We would talk about life back home. He had a family, and friends, and a sweetheart like I wish I had. I hope that what happened to me will never happen to him. When I healed and came back to England, I went to my sister's place, and did not like what I saw there. A drunk, depressed and irritable. I quickly got my own flat in London, but I could not afford the rent on an army pension. I started looking for a flat-mate, but I was unsuccessful. By that time living with my sister was looking pretty attractive, but then, well, you know what happened. My new flat-mate was a git, but nice enough when you got to know him. I also fell in love again, which I swore I would never do. For a while, things were okay. People tried to kill me, but that is just like what it was in Afghanistan. My friend had about the self-awareness of a four-year-old, so I had to help out a bit. She who I fell in love with never noticed me she was smitten with my friend, but she was kind, and caring, and that made it harder to accept that she would never love me back. I tried to find someone else, but I was never lucky. Then the fall came. I had two friends, though I never saw one , and I did not want to lose another, two were enough. But whatever gods are out there do not like John Watson. My friend died, deceiving himself at the very end. That was too much. I withdrew, though I go to work, have a cup of tea with my landlady, and act normally. Inside, I see my last friend here dying, I see my love go by every day, seeing me as nothing but a shadow of my friend. She is beautiful, with long dark hair and big brown eyes, she is kind to everyone she meets, though she is lonely. She is a bit like me." he ended, eyes bright with sadness.

"Tell me," Molly asked gently."Who is she?"

He looked straight at her, tears creeping out of his eyes.

"I'm sorry. She's you."

In that moment Molly realized that, while she loved a shadow of Sherlock, she loved another, she loved Sherlock's shadow.

"You must be the loneliest one in the world, my weeping angel."

She went towards him.

"But so am I."

They kissed, and two broken souls were healed.

One year later...

It was their wedding day, the day of their lives.

"I'm so glad you could come, old friend." Molly closed her cellphone and gave it to her mother, then clasped her father's hand and walked up the aisle, smiling radiantly.

"You may kiss the bride." And so they did, locked in an embrace like that night so many years ago. As they did, a slim, black-clothed figure at the back of the crowd smiled wryly, and clapped along with the gathering.

At the reception, John and Molly whirled away in the dancing, as they paused at the beginning of a waltz, a hand tapped John on the back of the shoulder.

"Mind if I have a dance with the lovely lady?" inquired the black-clothed figure.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John. "You're alive!"

"You didn't seriously think that I would jump like that?" laughed Sherlock. "So may I?"

"So long as you don't take too long."

Patterns repeat themselves, and here was now the happy couple and the friend laughing together, again.


End file.
